My eyes opened all of a sudden. Like a cat scared of its own shadow, I jumped out of bed. Anyone who knew and saw where I was sleeping would laugh at me. To call a bed these few leaves and straw thrown without much order nor care… it shows how precarious my life was.

I’d like to say the first thing I did right after waking up was to run away, to escape from whoever had captured me. The thought crossed my mind, of course. Maybe if I had left the place, my life would have been more peaceful. But that’s not what I did.

I felt a slight breeze caressing my body. My naked body, I corrected myself. The cold hit my private parts and reactivated me a bit, bringing me back to my senses. I fully opened my eyes and gasped, taken aback by a sudden fear from deep inside me. I rushed back to the bed and sat. Is it there?

My eyes traveled through my bare skin, went over all of the protruding bones that evidenced my malnutrition. To think I was in such a precarious state, the last month-permanently living in the sewers, the lack of food, constantly running from danger-had played a number on me. Eventually, my sight landed on my left ankle. I held my breath for a brief instant while I turned my leg to show its interior. I saw the distinctive red drawing. The knot on my throat undid itself, and I let all the air out. Noticing how tightly pressed my punches were, I extended my fingers and shook them to release the tension.

It’s still there, and it’s still full. Resting on my ankle was the most precious of my treasures—the only gift anyone has ever given me, a memory of my mother. Maybe the reason behind her death. An Inkpot, and not just any ordinary Inkpot. Just as not all clothes are of the same quality, neither is Ink. The lowest rate of Ink not only loses its black color and turns greyish, it can also be harmful to your skin. As you raise the quality, and inevitably the price and rarity, the color remains truer for a more extended period of time.

I’ve never witnessed what happens with old Ink, but my mother always told me to be careful with my tattoos. You don’t want the Ink of two drawings mixing together, she said, it could end up destroying both of them. Bad Ink tends to lose its properties and is more prone to diluting and spreading. With the years, it blurs and can expand beyond the original pattern.

Colors won’t solve that, of course. If they merge, not even the most expensive Ink would make a difference. But they help in preventing the disaster. The degradation becomes obvious to the bare eye, as your skin is unable to completely hide the color, even if blurred and spread. And let’s not forget their other usage; displaying a wide range of hues is an unmistakable sign of status, of noblese.

Then, what is a boy doing with a flask that not only spans from the base of his foot and ends past his ankle, but it’s also full of blood-colored liquid? According to my mother, it’s the sum of all her goods and debts. And it’s something I should never speak of, not even with her. Whenever I tried to bring up the topic, she would quickly shut me down. I might have been a boy, but even I knew that her story didn’t add up. This kind of Ink would allow her to live amongst the nobles for the rest of her life, there’s no way she could buy it.

Thus, knowing how strange my Inkpot was, even if I was not exactly sure of how much that was, the wave of relief that swarmed through my body and threatened to make me cry was completely justified. I brought my hands to my eyes and rubbed them, trying to wipe the sleep, tears, and worry away. I stretched and then sat, crossing my legs.

I’ve you’ve ever been inside a wardrobe, those with two doors and enough depth to fit a coat, then you’d be able to tell how big my room was. A candle on the near end, just far enough from the bed to avoid burning it, illuminated the space. Dust, what I suspected was a cockroach, my bed, and a bunch of planks acting as a door; that’s all there was.

I was on high alert, and that’s what helped me notice the noises coming from outside my little room. Each passing second, it grew louder. The sound of a pair of boots constantly rattling against the ground. Of gravel being dragged. Even before the door opened, I knew they were here for me. The air filled with dirt and dust particles that travelled through the spaces between the planks.

A shadow stood right by the door. It seemed as if the person wanted to open the it, I could see it moving by the changes in light that seeped through the cracks. But that was it, barely a centimeter befor it returned to its rightful place. I was caught by surprise as a series of knocks came from the door. Are they asking for permission? I cleared my throat and coughed a few times, trying to articulate an answer, but my dried-up mouth could not produce any sound. Resigned, I stood up and reached for the door.

It was barely two steps away, yet for the first time today, I noticed how tired and injured I was; the adrenaline had been acting as anaesthetics and hid my pain. My right side was rigid; my skin tensed with every movement and threatened to tear apart. Someone had tended to the hole on my torso, and either I had been passed out for a few days or they did a damn good job. My legs barely lifted my feet from the ground. My head swayed from side to side.

I opened the door and was met by two legs. With hardships, I tilted my head and looked up. That man was out of place; he wore a white shirt with little, not to say absolutely zero, stains. His brown pants were in one piece, neatly tucked inside two high boots that ended above his ankles. His was the most prominent beard I have ever seen. Its grey and white hairs spoke of the man’s age. It grew wide, but starting at his chin, it was carefully braided. Four or five fingers below, it was tied with a brown string. To this day, I still haven’t figured out how somehow that had so much facial hair could be bald.

“Consider yourself lucky.” Those were his first words. Ones I had already been considering for a while. Why was I still alive, after all? Why would my Inkpot be in one piece? Was luck the only reasonable explanation? Truth is, I don't believe in coincidences, I never did, but at that point my head was beyond cloudy, it was a fog of randomness that didn't let me think straight.

Anyhow, that resolved none of my doubts. As impending as they were, I tamed my mind and managed to show the proper manners my mother taught me. “Tha-” I coughed some more. “Thank you, sir.” My voice was guttural, unnatural for a boy my age.

I tried to continue, but a hand stopped me. Not the extremity per se, but the pouch it held. Water. I nervously stared at the pouch and the man interchangeably, unsure if I should just take it. When he nodded, I acted as fast as a compressed spring let free. I grabbed it and emptied half its contents before stopping.

“I am Tarar.” I bowed well beyond 45 degrees, showing my deep appreciation for his kindness. “I owe you, sir. If there’s any way…” I hesitated, knowing what my own words implied. “Any way,” I emphasized, “to repay my debt, then ple-”

“Hum,” he exhaled through his nose, loud enough to make me stop, “you will get yourself killed.”

Ashamed, I dropped my head. I was reddening, and I didn’t want him to see it. Some parts of me remembered my mother, her death, and tried to justify my recent behavior. There was no excuse; I was taught better, I should have never been so rash and unwise.

“You want to repay your favor?” I took the chance to stare at his eyes and show my determination. He inspected me thoroughly, analyzing if my look was pure bravado and show, or if there was genuine intention behind it.

The moment seemed eternal; seconds that seemed minutes passed until he exhaled once more. Was it satisfaction? Contempt? Whatever he saw in me, it was enough to convince him. “Then give it to me.”

My blood froze. His eyes gazed deep in my mind, penetrating to my very soul. I knew this was a possibility; I had been ready to give everything in return, including what he was now demanding. Yet, now that he said the words, something inside me broke. My hands started moving towards my ankle. My body reluctantly bent over. I placed one finger above it. Ire, rage, anger, helplessness, a whole myriad of feelings all directed against myself rushed through me. Stupid! How could I have ended up like this?

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No longer frozen, my blood boiled. It burnt my veins, heated my body, pushed self-destructive ideas on my mind, urged me to run. But none of that was realistic. Either I gave it out of free will, and maybe I’d win his favor, or he’d just kill me and obtain it anyway.

I forced my will on the Ink. The cork was already materializing, appearing right inside my other hand. The neck of the flask followed close behind. “STOP!” The order came just as a shade of red shined by the candle fire.

Bewildered, I studied his face while reverting the process at triple, quadruple the speed. Beneath his thick mustache, partly hidden by his beard, was a smile. “Why would you give it to me?” The smile converted to a thin line and a frown.

“Well,” I exposed my previous thoughts as calmly as I managed to, “you saved me, and I owe you.” He was about to answer back, not precisely in a kind and understanding way if one looked at his raised finger, when I hurriedly added. “That, and either I tried to win your favor, or you would simply take it over my dead body.”

“Why would you want to win my favor?” As I would later discover, my sessions with Spare would consist of long conversations where he asked me impossible questions, and I scrambled for answers. He would point out where I was wrong, tell me how my response could have been better, and then move to the next seemingly unconnected topic. That day, being the first, the questions were relatively easy in retrospect.

I closed one eye, raised the other eyebrow, and I exaggeratedly moved the remaining eye from his bald head to his covered feet. Clearly, intending to make my point understood without uttering a word. “I mean, you are clearly not from down here.” I pointed my finger at his pristine shirt. “You saved me, and apparently not to kill and rob me right afterwards.” His face indicated he wanted to hear more. “All I have to offer, you have already seen. Either you took pity on me, in which case we wouldn’t be having this conversation, or you have plans for me.”

He nodded in approval. Not one of those nods you do to a passing acquaintance, no, one of acknowledgement. “You don’t act your age,” he paused for a moment. “I observed you, with those addicts, I mean. How did you know it?”

“My mother-”, my voice broke. I felt the urge to sob and coughed to confine it inside me. I tried, I struggled to keep it all inside of me. My hands were shaking, and I could feel something on my throat threatening to suffocate me. I broke down. I feel down to my knees, whatever was keeping me running, completely exhausted. "I- I- if she- I-"

I didn't make any sense, but he never asked me if she was alive; he knew the answer. He neither asked me about her death; he knew it was painful. Instead, I could feel his presence moving by my side, hugging me in a crouching position. I am strong, for her, I have to be. I was rambling, trying to justify what should have been my first reaction from the first moment.

He just chose to wait until I was ready to talk. He didn't let go, not too hard but also not to soft. I could feel his warmth reaching deep inside me. “She taught me. About the outer world, maths, love, and even the dangers I would find down here.” I eventually found the voice to continue. “She was not my birth mother, but to me, she was the only one I had.” And I broke down once more.

I took some time, minutes, perhaps hours, of crying my soul out. But we didn't move, I was starting the healing process. A slow recovery that would not be solved in a matter of days, some of it settling as a permanent mark that would always accompany me. I didn't need him to say nice words, and I am grateful that he kept quiet by my side until I felt ready to stand again. We didn't talk about it, but we both knew that I needed to vent my feelings.

“Back in the firepit”, I made an effort to change the topic from darker thoughts, "I saw his spotted eyes and heard his hoarse voice. The menacing attitude and their insistence with the soup made it clear that something was amiss.”

“Yes.” He caressed his long beard while taking a meditative pause. “Keep that Ink; you will need it. Now, put on these clothes,” he took something from a backpack and handed it to me. A simple shirt and a pair of pants. I absentmindedly listened to the rest of his phrase, “and come find me outside when you are ready.”

When was the last time I actually wore clothes? I put the pants first, and I immediately felt trapped. My legs were used to being free, wrapped in loose robes at best. Not being able to feel the touch of the air is a weird sensation, I thought. One would think that something similar happened on my upper half, but far from it, but the soft touch of wool comforted my hurt spirit.

I exited the room and found the man seated on a rudimentary chair, a stone really. A candle resting above a wood table illuminated a collection of papers, drawings, books, and the dinner’s leftovers in front of him. My stomach roared when it got wind of the scene. “I-” I staggered, “I- it’s been a few days since I last ate.”

He pointed towards another stone while he got up and walked away. “My name is Spare,” the voice came in-between the sounds of metal and ceramic. My mouth, anticipating what was happening over the other room, started salivating. The sounds stopped, and soon after, he was leaving a plate in front of me. The smell of meat went right to my brain. It was red, served almost raw, with blood still pouring when I bit into it.

It was not the first time I ate meat, but it was a luxury we could rarely afford. Definitely not one we would spend Ink over. I was entranced with the food, and as I deduced by the question, failed to hear Spare. “Are you listening?” I shook my head, not in negation, but to focus on him. “From now on, you are my student.”

If it was a cartoon, my eyes would have popped out of their sockets. Instead, they just went round. “Shtudent?” I said with my mouth full of meat. His disapproving look made sure any other words I had to say, I’d do so when my mouth was empty. I audibly swallowed down and proceeded. “What will I study?”

“What do you know about Ink?” So it will be Ink, I immediately associated. I took a moment to arrange my thoughts and chew before answering back. A gesture that he appreciated.

“Not much, to be honest. I know it comes in several qualities, its basic usages, and not much more.” I shrug my shoulders. “Most of my knowledge is theoretical.” There is no way I could practice. If I had enough Ink to waste in experiments, I wouldn’t be living in the sewers. I refrained from saying that out loud, confident it was of poor taste.

“Have you ever tried to inscribe a drawing?” I limited myself to shake my head; my mouth was overflowing with meat once again. “Good, you won’t have acquired bad practices.” He repeatedly nodded to himself. “I will provide you with every tool and resource you need. I just have some conditions.”

Seeing that his face was deadly serious, I forced myself with great effort to leave the meat alone for a brief moment. My hands were dripping with sauce and blood, but I still straightened my back and acted soberly.

“You will follow my orders at all times. You will study and practice.” His voice was devoid of any emotion; he was like a priest reading the same scripture for the millionth time. “You will only leave this place when I deem you ready. And most importantly, you will never use that red Ink during my classes.”

“I understand.” And I honestly did, albeit I was a bit lost on the need to state the last one. I was not planning on using my rare Ink for mere practice. I knew that much. Why would he consider it worth to say the obvious?

“No, you don’t,” he answered my unspoken question. “But you will obey, and that’s enough.” The assertiveness in his voice and his imposing personality didn’t leave any room for discussion. And it couldn’t be any other way. I was a boy, and I didn’t know better.

Many things completely escaped my grasp, and many more I failed to even catch a glimpse of. But there was one I needed to know. "I still don't understand it. You rescued me. You are now making me your student. You will teach me about Ink? Why?"

I was expecting a long silence. Maybe some nonsense. Or even him trying to come up with some convoluted explanation to entice me to comply with his orders. But none of that happened.

"When the time you need to know comes, you will know." His voice, completely neutral, didn't give the slightest hint of what his real thoughts were. Yet I could see him hand involuntary clenching, some trace of emotion escaping the facade that he was trying to put.

“Clean your hands and come back.” He pointed with his head towards the room I presumed was the kitchen. While I was scrubbing my hands with some sand and then wiping them with water, he talked again. “There’s one more rule. Damage or dirty any of these books, and we are done.” I couldn’t see what books he was referring to, but it must have been those on the table. A cold sweat travelled my whole body as I remembered how close to them I was eating that meat. He could have said that before and saved me a heart attack!

I went back and found him with one hand extended, holding a book. “You can read, right?” I nodded; that was something my mother took great pains to teach me. “Today you’ll take the day off, rest and sleep. Tomorrow, we will begin with it.”

The title read ‘The way of the Ink’.

He pointed with one finger towards my room, and I followed it without protesting. I needed one more day of sleep.